This is just to say I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox. And by the way, I noticed they weren’t organic or locally grown. I thought we’d made a commitment to our Food Co-op. What’s the point of being part of a Food Co-op if you’re just going to buy plums from Wal-Mart?
This is just to say I ate your fucking plums in the icebox. And guess what, bitch? They were so sweet and so cold. No, I didn’t ask you if I could. But you fucked Joe Peterson last week. Did you ask me for permission? No. So I’d say we’re even.
This is just to say I ate the plums in the icebox. I also drank all the scotch in the liquor cabinet and used up all the toilet paper in the bathroom. So sue me.
So, here’s the deal. I ate your plums. But I’m too lazy to go buy you some more. So instead, I’m just going to write you this incredibly irritating note that you’re supposed to find charming. Even though you don’t have any plums for breakfast now. Ha ha! It sucks to be you!
This is just to say I ate the damn plums in the icebox. Yeah, you were probably saving them for your breakfast. I guess that makes me a selfish bastard. But honestly, I don’t give a shit. They were crazy good.
This is just to say I chowed down on the plums in the icebox. I didn’t leave any for you. Sorry about that. But on the upside, I’m writing this folksy, plain-spoken poem that 9th grade honor students will be forced to read for years to come. (Just so you know–the plums were delicious. So sweet and so cold.)